


For You Only

by margaerystark, rebeccavis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:36:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margaerystark/pseuds/margaerystark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebeccavis/pseuds/rebeccavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the cleverest of men could have never predicted that the alliance Mace Tyrell planned to form between the Starks and his family would have gone so seamlessly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snowflake

Her first snowfall is met with a mix of wonder and reluctance. The two feelings seem to manifest in her stomach as she looks outside her carriage window, her breath creating wisps of white in the air. She breathes on the glass and draws a rose in the steam with a gloved finger. It seems very out of place.

When she finally reaches Winterfell, she steps out into the cold, and bumps rise on her arms despite the furs she made sure to wear. A large party is there to greet her, their cheers like the buzzing of bees in her ears. She smiles kindly, though her eyes scan over them, searching for the man she’s to marry. She recognizes who could only be Eddard Stark, his grey eyes giving him away. Beside him is Lady Catelyn, her red hair like a burst of fire among all the dull colours of the North.

And then her eyes fall on him, his curls the same shade as his mother’s, the corners of his mouth turned up apprehensively as he looks her over. His face is slightly obscured by the snow, but as her tongue slips between her teeth and gently runs over her lips, she can still see his cheeks flush red.

She makes her way over to the Stark family, the trail of her golden dress sliding over the fresh layer of snow and getting wet. From afar he was handsome, but he’s even more so up close, his brow bone dipping between his deep blue eyes, his face newly shaven, his lips full and pink.

She realizes she is forgetting her courtesies, and so she quickly bows her head, sinking into a curtsy. “It’s good to finally meet you all,” she says, watching as they return the gesture and introductions are formally made. She finds it hard to look anywhere but Robb.

Her father was never known for his great intelligence, though he’d continue to claim otherwise. Even the cleverest of men could have never predicted that the alliance Mace Tyrell planned to form between the Starks and his family would have gone so seamlessly. She dines and dances with her betrothed at her welcome feast, and he tentatively takes her hand as they walk about afterwards, given some time alone to get to know each other.

The snow has not stopped falling when they step outside, falling on her long lashes and making her breathless, or perhaps that is to be blamed on the man beside her. She thinks herself very lucky. There were many men her father could have chosen to marry her to, but this one is kindhearted.

They stop beneath the heart tree in the godswood, and she looks up at in in awe, nothing of its kind in Highgarden. She shivers slightly, drawing her furs tighter around her shoulders.

“Are you alright, my lady?” Robb asks, watching her with a sort of uncertainty but reverence as well.

“Yes,” she answers immediately, hesitating before admitting, “just cold.” She does not want him to think her weak or unable to withstand the differences of his home from hers. She heard stories of Jorah Mormont and Lynesse Hightower, of how they were in love but could not overcome their dissimilarities. She vowed before she came to this strange land to be stronger than them.

“Oh,” Robb says simply in response to her, and before she knows what is happening, he is leaning in to press his lips to hers in an almost timid fashion. Her eyebrows rise upon instinct, but then she smiles, closing her eyes and slipping her arms around his neck. It is her first kiss and his, from what she can tell.

When they pull away, he is returning her smile, bringing a hand up to softly wipe at the snowflakes that have fallen on her cheeks, and she is overwhelmed by warmth.


	2. Haze

Her lips are warm and soft and they draw him in, making him want desperately to be closer to her. If this is what kissing is like then he most definitely wouldn’t mind doing it again, he thinks. He knows he’ll never for the rest of his life forget the smile on her face when she pulls away from him.

The girl he can see hovering above him when he opens his eyes looks to be his age. She has dark hair, that much he knows, but the rest is difficult to make out. Her eyes widen in surprise when she sees him awake, but that’s the only glimpse he catches of her before he slips out of consciousness again.

Her laughter echoes through the Great Hall of Winterfell. He grins, wondering if he can make her laugh again. Sansa seems to think the world of her, she gets along brilliantly with Bran and Rickon, and even Arya after initially seeming uncertain looks to be warming to her. He looks over to his father sitting beside his mother and thinks perhaps that could be him someday. He could be a good husband, a good father, a good Lord of Winterfell. When he exchanges a glance with his betrothed he thinks all of those things are possible.

His arm hurts. Everything hurts, but especially his arm. The bed he’s in is unfamiliar, as are the walls of the castle that surround him. His memory comes back only in bits and pieces. He remembers being stood outside the Crag in the dead of night, he remembers the ram that broke through the gates and finally, eventually, he remembers the arrow that pierced his skin just before the castle was yielded. The small wound had festered, giving him a fever that left him half the time unsure if he was awake or dreaming.

He doesn’t have time to be any of the things he’d planned to be. He leaves her with many, many kisses, with a promise that he’ll return soon and as soon as he does then they’ll be wed. She suggests they marry before he leaves, but her father is against it. Robb doesn’t understand at first, not until his mother explains it to him. _Lord Mace is waiting_ , she says. _Waiting to see who wins._

“He just keeps saying the same thing over and over again,” the brunette tending to Robb remarks, shaking her head at someone he can’t see, “ _Margaery. I have to get back to Margaery_.”


	3. Flame

When he comes to Winterfell, the last person he expects to see is Robb Stark. He was supposed to be off fighting a war in the South. He was supposed to be _gone._

“He came back for his betrothed. They’re to travel south together and make alliances with the Reach and the Stormlands,” a serving girl tells him, her hair bunched between his fingers, tears running down her ugly face. “Please, please,” she begs, “don’t do this.”

He throws her down, her head hitting the stony path. The sound of her cracking skull is drowned out by his yell of rage.

His men look at him as if they can scarcely believe they followed such a fool into battle. He looks up at the castle, hears the shouts of warning, sees the people escaping. For a fleeting moment, he’s almost certain he can see a sword flash in the window that he knows is Robb’s.

“Burn it down,” he says, his brow furrowing. If he can’t win this place for his father then he can surely destroy it.

-

Her heart races as her betrothed rushes to grab his boots, his sword. There’s no time for him to find his armor and slip it on, not when they see people torching the castle from their window.

“Get out, just get out any way you can,” he tells her, but she finds it difficult to let go of his hand, seeing true fear flash in his eyes for the first time. She leans in, firmly pressing her lips to his, wanting to give him strength.

“I love you,” she chokes out, and then they separate as she flees with the flood of servants, with Osha and Rickon and Bran on Hodor’s back. The inside of the castle was always warm, but the outside brings a new sort of heat that it never has before. Flames dance around her, making her eyes water and her throat sting.

It is set ablaze as well as the stables and the sept. She watches her new home burn from afar with those who evacuated the city with her. Tears run down her face, creating white streams on her ash covered face.

_“Not the godswood, anything but the godswood,”_ she prays, hoping the fire doesn’t reach the tree that she and her beloved kissed under for the first time. The Andals never touched the weirwoods in the North, and she hopes the Greyjoys will not either.

Barely an hour passes before she sees her betrothed nearly stumble towards them with the group of surviving fighters.

“Robb!” she yells, running for him. He has an open wound on his arm, his tattered and singed shirt sticking to it. Blood covers him and his sword.

“It’s over,” he coughs. “I killed him and his men fled.”

They put out the fire with basins of water, with people running back and forth with buckets of it from the pools in the godswood. Eventually it subsides, though the walls of the castle are either melted or charred, the horses gone, the sept ruined.

He collapses in her arms when it’s all done, his shoulders quivering with silent sobs. She holds him to her, runs her fingers through his curls, her fingers massaging his scalp. “It’s alright. It’s alright now,” she murmurs, unsure if she’s reassuring him or herself.

-

He has a scar from the fire - twisted, leathery skin on his arm. No one can see it when he wears a shirt with longer sleeves, but he’s reminded of the incident every night when he climbs into bed bare-chested. His wife kisses over it before she falls asleep.

His wife - that’s what she is now. They were married days after Winterfell nearly burned to the ground under the heart tree that was left unscathed. She wanted to have the ceremony there before they made the journey south.

There are few days when he’s fine and even fewer where he’s safe, but it’s difficult to be anything but happy when she’s by his side, when they’re kissing, when he’s buried deep inside of her and she’s screaming out his name.

There will be many battles to come, that much he knows. But he will not have to face them alone. 


	4. Tremble

In the dark she sees nothing, not even her hands in front of her face. She blew out her candles long ago and sat in the space between her bed and the walls of the tent. There are not many places to hide such a place, and she is terrified someone will set the tent ablaze and burn her inside of it. It would be easy to do with all the torches about their campsite, whether by accident or on purpose.

She swears that not even the moon is shining tonight, not a single sliver of light present, but she can hear most everything. There’s the clang of swords against one another, the angry shouts of men, their screams as the sharpness of a blade pierces through their neck or chest or ribs. She listens for Robb’s cry among them, but she cannot pick his voice out, and she is unsure if that’s more reassuring than it is terrifying.

They never expected to be attacked in the middle of the night, but she supposes that’s what their enemy was thinking as well. She does not know if they are Lannister or Greyjoy or merely people of their own sort. She and her husband had been loving each other when the commotion outside had begun, and both of them had to get dressed in a hurry. She helped him haphazardly throw on some armor once her dress was pulled on, though she was not comforted by the job she did. “Stay here, sweetheart,” he told her. “Hide. Pretend there’s no one in this tent. I’ll be back soon.” He had kissed her then, and she can still taste him on her lips even now.

It seems to take forever for the fight to subside. Her whole body begins to shiver when the noises die down, and she knows that soon she will find out who is the victor in this battle. She hears the flaps of her tent open and she takes in a sharp breath, covering her mouth so that whoever it is will not recognize she is there.

“Margaery?” she hears Robb asking for her, soft and tentative, and she drops her quivering hands, letting out a choked sob.

“Come here, my love,” she tells him, standing and walking towards his voice. Her fingers meet his scratchy beard, his cold armor, and then he reaches for her hands, holding them steadfast in his own. He bends to find her lips in the darkness, even giving a gentle laugh when he misses and catches the corner of her mouth. She rights herself, pressing herself to him as they kiss properly.

“You won,” the whispers as they pull away, and she can almost see him nod his head.

His hands move to the fabric at the front of her dress, running over the small swell of her stomach. “Thank the gods the two of you are safe.”

Her shoulders shake again, this time not with fear but with tears of relief.


End file.
